Matt couldn’t find any words. He looked at his daughter like he would a stranger, so Fastwater said, “That sounds great. You need to get out of the house for a while.”
Abby picked up her half-eaten cookie. The sheriff watched as she studied her father, probably wondering why his eyes were moist, or could they just be bloodshot from lack of sleep? She said, “What were you guys talking about?”
Matthew still hadn’t found his voice, so to fill the void, Fastwater said, “Leonard is coming up from Duluth with his mom, Arlene. I hope there’s a good turnout for Rose.”
Abby’s countenance began to darken. She leaned against the counter, crossed her arms in front of her, and nibbled on the cookie.
Fastwater continued to carry the conversation. “Your dad and I were talking about going to the service, too. It should be okay to let the search go for a few hours, don’t you think, Abby?” He had to give the kid credit. When she put on that insolent mask, there was nothing to be read in her face.
Ignoring the sheriff’s comment, she said, “Okay, so really. I heard you guys talking in here. What’s going on?”
Matt finally spoke up. “The sheriff thinks you know something.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe you know where Ben is.”
Abby scoffed. Fastwater was surprised to see tears rise so quickly in her eyes. He seized the moment. “Or maybe you know the connection between Ben’s disappearance and Rose’s death.”
Even Gitch jumped under the table when Abby stomped her foot on the floor. She stalked off toward the back door, then spun around and paced back through the kitchen.
Matt said, “Abby, please . . .”
She stopped and glowered at the sheriff. “Just what are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Abby. I was just saying to your father—”
“Oh, my God!” she interrupted. “You think we killed Rosie.”
Both men were shocked into silence. Abby said, “Is that why you ordered an autopsy?”
Fastwater tried to say something, but Abby’s anger, punctuated with a nasty sarcasm, overrode him. “How about this one, Sherlock. You already figured out that we were at the lake, so I’ll just tell you. My little brother killed Rosie, and then took off to lead a life of crime. I’m covering for him because he’s only eight years old.” She turned to leave the room.
“Abby, stop,” Fastwater called. “That’s not what I meant.”
Abby grabbed the kitchen entryway and spun around. The rage flashing in her eyes looked to Fastwater like heat lightning on a summer night. When she faced her father, however, the despair on Matt’s face seemed to diffuse her ill temper like sunlight through a thundercloud. He beseeched her with his stare, begged for a word of encouragement in this dark hour. Fastwater saw her softening. Abby dropped her gaze down to Gitch, and drew a deep sigh.
“Jeez, I was just kidding, you guys. Lighten up, will you?” She took a brief step toward her father, and said, “We’ll get him back, Poppa. Ben will be just fine.” She smiled at him, a smile so inspiring that Fastwater could only look on in wonder.
The silence following Abby’s departure was complete. They heard her stocking-clad feet bound up the stairs to her bedroom. After a time, Gitch slunk out from under the table, and Fastwater reached out to scratch the dog on the nose.
Matt said, “She hasn’t called me Poppa since she was about three years old.”
“That girl thinks the world of you,” Fastwater said. “I’m sure that if she knew anything she would’ve told us.”
“I guess that means we’re kind of back to square one.”
Fastwater nodded, but not so much at Matt’s comment as to his own thoughts. Abby may not have told them anything in words, but the sheriff was convinced now more than ever that Ben’s disappearance and Rosie’s death were somehow connected.
SEVEN
Arlene Fastwater
Sheriff Marlon Fastwater was indeed very happy with the turnout for Rose Bengston’s memorial service. Little First Lutheran Church was packed, an especially gratifying turnout given the beautiful weather on this Saturday afternoon early in the fishing season. A small clapboard-sided structure surrounded by neatly trimmed cedar trees, First Lutheran Church exhibited the classic design elements so beloved in country churches: narrow stained glass windows, blonde oak woodwork, and a tall steeple topped off with an old cast iron bell.
Abby Simon, from her seat in the third row next to Marcy Soderstrom, watched the people as they entered. Abby wore a knee-length skirt with casual walking shoes and a button-up sweater. Her ever-present braid hung over the front of her shoulder. Out of respect to the church and Rose’s memory, she held her Twins baseball cap in her lap. Marcy, on the other hand, wore black jeans and T-shirt under a black leather vest. Finishing off her “mourning” attire were black hiking boots. Abby thought that even Marcy’s hair seemed to have a darker sheen to it than usual.
Matthew Simon stood behind the back row, directly behind the sheriff. Most folks stopped to shake his hand and to offer words of support for his missing son. Many of them had spent long hours in the woods and on the lakes searching for the boy. When Mrs. Virginia Bean arrived, Abby saw her face light up at the sight of the sheriff. She took a seat in the back next to him, patted his arm warmly, and said, “I’m so glad you decided to come.”
Watching them, Marcy excused herself to join Matthew at the back of the church. She grabbed his hands, stood too close, and leaned into his height. Her conversation was animated, and Abby smiled to see her father responding with awkward smiles and conversation of his own.
The church filled up, with a comforting warmth settling over Abby, the cause of which was hard to identify. Sunlight through the stained glass windows cast a filtered glow over the room, while hushed voices and the familiar faces became a mellow backdrop. A collage of photos of Rose stood on an easel in the front of the church, with dozens of colorful, fragrant bouquets lining the sanctuary. The large turnout appealed to Abby’s sense of pride. All of these people had known Rose. She’d been a dynamic character for many years in Black Otter Bay, and a particularly special friend to Abby. Rose had been one of those “fun” adults who appreciated the magic and wonder of the wilderness. She always made a big deal out of Abby’s joy in fishing. To this day, a photograph of the little four-inch crappie Abby caught as a three-year-old was taped to the cash register counter in the bait shop. Whenever Abby and her father stopped in for minnows or tackle, Rose slipped a candy bar into Abby’s pocket. “You have to keep up your energy,” she’d say with a wink. “You never know when that big one will hit.”
First Lutheran Church, located on Highway 61 about a mile north of town, backed up to the shore of Lake Superior. It was the only church servicing Black Otter Bay, although Immaculate Conception’s gothic red brick Catholic Church and a modern evangelical Assembly of God served congregations in neighboring communities. Because of its location next to Lake Superior, easily visible from the highway, First Lutheran Church often hosted more out-of-town worshippers than local residents on summer Sunday mornings. Truth be told, Black Otter Bay was-n’t a particularly religious community, but the little white country church beckoned to travelers with its nostalgic architecture, creatively cropped topiary, and the deep blue background of rolling breakers coming ashore on Lake Superior.
Randall Bengston entered the sanctuary then, his long, wispy thin hair resting on the shoulders of a corduroy sport coat. He wore a heavily jeweled watch on a turquoise band, with rings on all his fingers in an attempt to look arty and hip. But with his narrow-set eyes and thin-lipped scowl, Abby thought he looked more like an aging gangster. She shivered. After Rose’s husband died, Randall had shown no interest in fishing or the bait business, but Rose had resolutely carried on.
Marcy finally returned, scooting into the pew beside Abby, and they watched Jackie accompany Randall up the aisle. She completely ignored Matthew, but held Randall’s arm all the way up to the fron
t pew. Jackie seemed to be glowing, with high color in her cheeks and a twinkle in her beautiful dark eyes. Spotting Abby and Marcy, she broke into a broad smile, and after they claimed their seats, she came around to speak to her daughter.
Acknowledging Marcy with the briefest nod, she took Abby’s hand and asked, “Won’t you come sit up front with Randall and me?”
“But I came with Marcy, Mom. I think I’ll just stay here.”
“Did you ride up together?”
“No. We walked.”
Jackie was taken aback. “Walked?”
“It’s only a mile or so,” Abby said. “Most of it on the Superior Hiking Trail.”
Marcy added, “It was a beautiful walk, Jackie. I’m really sorry about Rosie. We all thought the world of her.”
The annoyance on Jackie’s face was apparent. The two women were about the same age, but that was the extent of the common ground between them. In Jackie’s opinion, Marcy was one of those small-town hicks she’d had to tolerate for the dozen or so years she’d lived in Black Otter Bay. To her credit, though, she managed to offer a perfunctory thank you.
Returning her attention to Abby and clasping her daughter’s hand now with both of hers, she said, “You know, sweetheart, I really think you should come home with us. There’s nothing here for you right now. Wouldn’t you like to get away from all this for a while?”
Randall, sitting sideways with an arm draped over the back of the pew, watched their conversation.
“What about school, Mom?” Abby asked. “I still have another week to go.”
“Oh, they’re not going to say anything, honey. And Randall and I would dearly love it if you’d come stay with us this summer.”
At a momentary loss for words, Abby again looked at Randall. She wanted to tell her mother that her boyfriend gave her the creeps, and that she couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up in the city for the summer. But what actually came out of her mouth was a complete surprise even to her. “I think Dad needs me to stay here.”
Jackie flinched. Fortunately, just at that moment, Arlene Fastwater entered the sanctuary. She cruised up the center aisle like she owned the place, her son Leonard following in her wake. She wore a billowing, bright purple dress, and managed to carry her large frame confidently in matching purple heels. A huge straw hat, bedecked in flower blossoms like an Easter bonnet, made her look even taller and broader. Everyone turned to look.
“Well, think about it, Abby,” Jackie said. “We’ll talk more later.” Just before she returned to her seat, she added, “You know, I need you, too, honey.”
Color rose in Abby’s cheeks, and she rolled her eyes at her mother’s back. Marcy quietly let her hand rest on Abby’s arm. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “You do what you think is right. Besides, we all know it would break your dad’s heart if you moved.”
Just then Pastor John Petersen arose from his high-backed chair beside the altar. The reverend was a full-blooded Norwegian, having immigrated to America with his parents while still a child during World War II. In a loud, heavily accented voice he welcomed the congregation, and then read a passage from the Book of Psalms. Abby wasn’t big on church sermons, but she found Pastor Petersen’s accented speech to be tender and sincere, like a kindly old grandfather. He wore his short, steel-gray hair combed straight back. When he spoke, he held his hands out before him, as if showing off the length of a big fish he’d caught. His lilting Norwegian accent sounded like a character out of the nineteenth century.
He sang a hymn then, a capella and in Norwegian, so of course no one understood a word of it. It made the congregation a little uncomfortable. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows, safe in the knowledge that the pastor’s eyes were closed as he sang from memory, his face and arms raised in praise toward the heavens above.
When he asked for friends and family members to come up to share stories about Rose, Randall was the first to stand up. No microphone was necessary, as the acoustics in the tiny sanctuary amplified every little sound. Facing the congregation, he thanked everyone for coming and invited them to stay after for a potluck luncheon. Then he looked out over their heads to the back of the church, and concluded, “You know, it was my mother’s wish to be cremated. She wanted her ashes scattered over the aspen grove behind the bait shop.” He stared directly at the sheriff. “I’m just sorry that the authorities took my mother away. This is her memorial service, but she isn’t here, because someone decided an autopsy was necessary.”
The congregation stole glances at the sheriff. Abby studied her hands in her lap. She couldn’t believe Randall would challenge the sheriff like that right in front of everyone.
The momentary awkwardness was broken when Arlene Fastwater stood up and walked to the front of the sanctuary. Abby wasn’t even sure that Randall was done yet, but when Arlene stepped up to the altar and turned to face the congregation, all eyes were on her, and Randall quietly sat back down in the front row.
Arlene introduced herself, making sure everyone knew she was not only Marlon Fastwater’s sister, but a successful attorney working for the city of Duluth. Her voice was big and rich, a full-bodied compliment to her plus-sized physique. Accustomed to speaking in front of people, her words rolled out easily, and Abby found herself enthralled by Arlene’s voice and the sing-song inflections of her Native American heritage. At some point she even conjured up the image of an American Indian Aretha Franklin. Gaudy rings and bracelets flashed as Arlene worked her arms and hands for emphasis. Like an ancient sorceress, her words spun a web of mystery and magic over the assembled crowd.
• • • • •
“I’ve known Rose my entire life,” Arlene began. “When I was a little girl, her bait shop was like a second home to me. As many of you know, my real home was an old log cabin up over the ridge. We didn’t even have a road to our house, much less a car to drive on it. My brother Marlon and I walked down to Rosie’s place to catch the bus for school.
“I loved that bait shop; all those bubbling tanks full of minnows and leeches. Rose kept the water in them ice cold. I especially remember the big sucker minnows, some of them up to a foot long. I’d stand over their tank for hours, mesmerized by the way they swam together in darting flashes, all in the same direction. Other than differences in size, they all looked alike. Sometimes I’d try to name them, like pets, but then they’d dart off again, and I’d lose track of who was who.
“Back in the old days, when Rosie’s husband Henry was still alive, they raised rabbits in a hutch outside the bait shop. Rose paid me pocket change to feed the rabbits and keep their cages clean. I never tried to name them, however, because I knew that soon Henry would make rabbit stew out of them, and sell their furs to the Canadian buyers.
“As I sat on the edge of the minnow tank one day, a great sadness came over me. My fingers trailed in the water, flicking back and forth to agitate the minnows. It was getting deep into the fall, and a new school year was well underway. It wasn’t until Rose came over to me that I realized tears had sprouted on my cheeks.
“‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. When she placed her arm around my shoulders, I burst out crying.
“‘My dear little Arly,’ she said. That was her nickname for me: Arly. I don’t know what she may have been thinking. Was something wrong at school? Did I have trouble at home? She knew we didn’t have any money. I just looked at that cold, dark water, and all those wild minnows that thought they were so free and independent, when really they were just as dumb as the rabbits outside in the hutch.
“‘Tell me what’s bothering you, sweetheart. Let Rosie try to help.’
“It was difficult to talk about, because I wasn’t even sure myself what was wrong. But Rose looked at me with her kindly brown eyes, and I just started talking. ‘I wish I could be like everyone else,’ I told her. ‘Why do I always have to be the different one?’
“I mentioned the other children in school. They all looked like their skinny little Barbie dolls,
all white-skinned and pretty, with fancy clothes and blonde hair and parents with cars. Then, here I come: a dark-skinned, chubby little Indian girl with straggly black hair. I didn’t have a doll that looked like me. I didn’t even have a doll that looked like them.
“‘Oh, Arly,’ she said, hugging me close. ‘You have no idea how special you are. If I had been lucky enough to have a daughter, I’d want her to be just like you.’
“Well, of course, that was a very sweet thing to say, but I wasn’t her daughter, and it didn’t change the fact that I was different from everyone else. Then Rose said, ‘You have been blessed with the gift of friendship from all of God’s creation; the animals and plants, even the spirits in the rivers and lakes. None of those other children have that. They may have material things, like toys and cars and whatnot, but they don’t have a clue about those other things. When you need them, Arly, your real friends will be there for you.’ She squeezed my shoulders and kissed my cheek.
“We sat together quietly for a long time. Her words made some sense to me, but it was confusing, too. It was wonderful to have her arm around me as we listened to the water pumps filtering oxygen into the minnow tanks. Then, very slowly, we became aware of another sound, from outside, and we both looked at the open door.
“‘What’s that?’ I asked, using a sleeve to wipe tears off my face.
“‘I have no idea. Lets take a look.’
“Side by side, we snuck up on the open door of the bait shop. Together we looked outside, Rose’s face peering around the doorframe about two feet above mine. Out on the gravel driveway stood a massive Canadian goose. He looked at us, and then let go with a series of powerful honks.
“‘My goodness!’ Rose exclaimed as I broke into a wide grin.
“We stepped outside, and Rosie said, ‘Who are you, Mister? And why have you come to visit?’
“I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland. Did she expect the goose to answer her?
“Together, we took a couple steps toward the majestic creature. He made as if to stand his ground, but when we got too close, he turned and waddled off the driveway into the yard.
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